A Little White Lie
by MiSs HoLlYwOoD
Summary: [PrePostRent] All these things he should've known, but who knew just a little white lie could hurt so much.
1. Prologue

Roger looked up from his guitar as Mark gave another hoarse cough. Looking up, Mark met Roger's gaze and tried to give him a small smile only to start coughing again.

"You're sick," The songwriter pointed out. "How long has it been, Mark? A month, maybe two."

Mark only coughed in return. One cough leading him into another, a coughing fit was making its presence known. The filmmaker doubled over at the intensity of the coughing. He shouldn't have been sick as long as he had been. It was simply a cold, not some major illness.

"You need to go to the hospital," Roger said, as he started playing his guitar again. He watched Mark, his friend, fight his coughing.

"I'm fine," the sick man managed to say in between coughs. "It's just a cold. It'll be gone before you know it."

The two friends knew that this was a lie considering that Mark had been dealing with this "cold" for over two months. The filmmaker walked over to the sink, grabbing a glass of water and quickly downing it so maybe, just maybe, the coughing would stop.

No such luck.

"You need to go to the hospital," Roger remarked as he removed himself from the table in which he had placed himself upon and set him guitar when he had been sitting. "And I'm not taking no for an answer."

Mark simply regarded his best friend. Breathing deeply, holding off the coughing for just two seconds, he mumbled, "No." He raised his eyebrows almost as a challenge to Roger. It would have been an intensive moment had it not been then that Mark started to cough once again.

"Told you, I'm not taking no for an answer."

Roger went into the room Mark lived in grabbing a few objects of clothing: a sweater, his beloved scarf, and, what looked like, a clean pair of pants. The songwriter just tossed them out into the open area of their living room.

Mark just took in the scene. His clothes were flying out of his room. "Roger, leave my clothes out of this."

"Get dressed."

Mark gave Roger a stern look before dumping himself on the shabby couch, they'd found somewhere. Eyes locked and war lines had been drawn.

Roger swiftly pulled out a paper bag and started stuffing the clothes he had previously evicted from Mark's room into it before grabbing Mark, himself, and hauling him over his shoulder.

Clad only in his boxers, Mark instantly felt the cold, December air embrace him as Roger walked out the door. Mark knew he had no say in the matter so he did just as any other sick person would do, he started coughing again.

"Roger I'm cold," Mark staved off the coughing to let out that one sentence. Roger simply rolled his eyes and kept on walking. Mark was already sick as it was, what was a few moments in the cold? Roger couldn't help but let a smile run across his face as he mused that thought. True, it was a bit assholistic but he had the best intentions in his heart. "Roger put me down and give me my clothes. Now damn it." Yet, Roger kept on walking as if he had never heard Mark's pleas in the first place.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Mark's pleas and begging became greater. "Roger, I'm fine. I don't need to go to the hospital."

"Well, since we're already here why don't you get checked out?" Roger placed Mark in a chair and walked over to the counter to sign him in. He started filling out the paper work wondering if any of this really mattered in his friend's case. It was simply a cold that had gone on for just way too long. And he was doing what any good friend would do at this point.

Just as Roger was about to turn the paper work in, Mark appeared behind him and grabbed it. Making a few small marks on the documents, the filmmaker tried to slip it past the songwriter.

Roger, thoroughly annoyed already, took the papers back. Looking over what he had changed, Roger's face fell.

"How the hell do you have AIDS?"


	2. Conception

**((Okay, so I forgot a disclaimer last time. I'll do it now. I don't own RENT or any affiliation of RENT. All I own is my ideas for the stories.))**

Mark gave a small, short laugh and motioned for Roger to move to the chairs in the waiting room. Getting comfortable, Mark turned to face his friend.

"Mark, now would be nice."

"Okay, okay. So you want to know how I got AIDS. Let's see."

"Come on. I'm not getting any younger."

"Sorry, I'm trying to figure out where to start. So I'm 23 now and you're 24, right?" Mark paused and looked at Roger. His friend nodded his head so Mark assumed it was safe to continue," Okay, zoom out. My life. Act 22, scene 11. It was Thanksgiving. We'd just arrived to my mom's. I don't remember why we went there but I think it had something to do with extra food. All I know is that something took us there . . ."

"I can't believe we're at my mom's house for Thanksgiving. It's been how long since I've had Thanksgiving with these people?" Mark whined to his best friend.

"But, Mark, think of the left-overs she'll be sending home with us. Just please, think of the food." Roger said as the two of them walked up the sidewalk to the normal looking, white, suburban house.

Mark grumbled, mixing something that sounded like "fucker" and "starving." Mark hastened his step with Roger practically running to keep up with his insane speed. But, before the filmmaker could even knock on the door, a woman of older age, flew from inside and latched herself onto Mark's neck, sobbing.

"Mom, we have an audience," Mark groaned as he looked back at Roger.

With amazing speed, Mark's mother regained her composure. She smoothed out her shirt, wiped the tears off of her face, and took a deep breath. "Come on in boys. It's almost time for dinner. You came just in time."

Mrs. Cohen escorted both men into her house. Mark noted the things that had changed since he had been gone. It wasn't much but he noted them. It could very well be the last time he came to his mother's house. He wanted to know what it looked like.

The older woman looked back at the boys and stated, "Mark you can help Cindy make the mashed potatoes. You used to love doing that. Please, hurry up."

Mark's mother walked off to some odd portion of the house.

"Hmm…I wonder what Mark liked when he was younger," Roger said, letting his voice make the sentence sound highly obscene. A smirk played on Roger's lips, thinking for once the filmmaker would have nothing to say.

"Shut the hell up. What's it to you anyway? Should I say anything about your love of Ranch dressing?" Mark shot back.

"Well, remember, you used to drown everything in mayo. What the fuck is wrong with you? Mayo and French fries!" Roger said, backing Mark against a wall.

"Hmmm…this looks kinda familiar," Mark spat sarcastically, pushing Roger away from him and walking into the kitchen. Maybe killing the mash potatoes would relieve some tension.

The family sat down together at the table. Mark was seated next to Roger who sat next to Mark's father. Roger looked across from him and he found Cindy, Mark's sister. Roger could only imagine who the other people were.

Roger nudged Mark, and whispered, "Is this the wrong time to say that this is highly uncomfortable?"

Mark looked at Roger wide-eyed and mouthed only one word. "No."

Roger hid a small laugh at Mark's reaction. It was a classic Mark expression.

"Would everyone be quiet while I say the prayer," Mark's father said before he cleared his throat.

Roger mouthed "Prayer?"

Mark shrugged his shoulders in return. Both boys stayed silent as Mark's father did the prayer before Mrs. Cohen announced that everyone should start eating. Roger piled the food on his plate. Everything he could was on there. Mark took his food in moderation. Eating about what a five year old would. Roger pondered why his friend, who normally ate as much as he did, wasn't eating his heart out. Mark looked up, uncomfortable under his friend's gaze, and smiled.

"So Mark, how's the filming going?" Cindy asked, breaking the silence at the table.

"Cindy, just shut up," Mark said, venom seeping through the words. He hadn't meant it to be that mean in the beginning but something about being there, in that house, had him on edge.

"God, I was just asking. Be that way then," Cindy spat at him.

"Honey, I don't think you should be on your third glass of wine at this point," Mr. Cohen said trying to remove the glass from his wife's hand.

"No worries dear," Mrs. Cohen chirped as she drank the rest of the glass before her husband could take it. "Did I ever tell you of the night Markie here was conceived?"

"Mom, not here," Mark lowered his head, noting that his mother was drunk. And when his mother was drunk, nothing could stop her from talking about inappropriate things.

"No seriously. My husband is a great lover. Oh god, he gets me so hot," Mrs. Cohen started just as her husband covered her mouth with his hand.

"Honey, they don't need to know that," Mark's dad said, his cheeks flushing from embarrassment.

Mrs. Cohen removed her husband's hand, "And that night was no different. I think we were in the bathroom," she turned to her husband, "You always did like shower sex."

"Can I please be excused? I do not want to hear of your love life," Mark pleaded to his father.

"Actually I think maybe we should move into the living room and have a family oriented togetherness moment," his father compromised with him. Mark nodded in agreement.

As they walked out, Mark's mother, ever the observant one, stated, "Mark, dear, you've gotten thin. Are you eating enough? You didn't eat much today and honey, whenever you're over you always eat your weight's worth of food."

Mark shifted from foot to foot. The AZT never did help with that.

**((A/N: There are several references in this chapter to other stories. I would just like to point out that I don't mean to reuse ideas from other stories by either myself or Mookie Riffic, it just happens that the same joke fits. ))**


	3. Drunken Conclusions

**Chapter 3: Drunken Conclusions**

"Okay. Zoom out. My life. Act 21, scene 8. Right after my birthday party. You were too drunk to notice anything at that point. The monsters of Satan could have come to burn the hell out of us and you would've thought it was funny..."

Roger barked out laughter at some stupid, drunken remark Mark had made. It was getting close to 10 but both boys were too far gone to notice or care for that matter. Turning his head, Mark regarded Roger through his drunken haze. What had kept him beside his best friend for  
so long? Why did he put up with Roger's abuse and mood swings? What made Roger so different?

Maybe it was the fact that they shared something so intimate, so deadly. Something Mark could relate to above everyone else.

Mark shook his head. He was too drunk to be having these sober thoughts. He chugged what beer was left in his cup. He wanted to forget about things just for one night. He wanted one night to be where he was totally normal, where he was just another person out to get drunk on their 21st birthday. He let out a sigh before removing himself from his seat. He needed another beer. His goal tonight was to get totally trashed. He didn't want to remember the night tomorrow morning. Let it be a complete mystery, he didn't care. He wanted to question what happened the day he turned 21.

He wanted to be normal even if it was only for one night.

"Hey Mark, where ya heading?" Roger slurred out after he realized his best friend was not sitting beside him anymore. Mark was but two steps from the couch where the songwriter was located.

Mark tipped his glass and mumbled, "Need more beer."

Roger let out another laugh, though the moment didn't really call for one. The younger man smiled for a moment at the simplicity that being drunk brought to a person. Everything seemed so much easier. He walked into the kitchen and promptly filled his cup to the brim with the intoxicating liquid.

As he sat down Roger raised his glass to Mark and let out, "To birthdays."

Mark responded, "To good days."

"To friends."

"To simplicity."

"To forgetting."

"To normalcy."

The two men then commented together, "To life."

They both started chugging the beer in their cups. Roger let out a loud burp after he had finished his. Mark looked down and realized his cup was now half empty.

Was it half empty or half full?

He'd never really thought about that question too much. Lately it seemed he always called a cup 'half empty'. Did that truly mean he was pessimistic? But with a life like his, who wouldn't be pessimistic. Mark had his secrets. Mark had skeletons in his closet. Mark was a master at hiding by this point. Mark gave his cup one last look and then decided that his cup did not need to be analyzed. At least not while he was drunk.

Roger looked from Mark's cup to Mark's face. And then he did it again. And again. And again. And again. Until not only was he thoroughly confused but very dizzy. Roger paused a second before asking, "Are you going to ask that cup to marry you or are you going to drink its contents like a normal person." It may have taken a few minutes to come out but it was the least drunk statement he had made all night.

Mark gave a small laugh and took a gulp of his drink. He then turned to look at Roger, "That better?"

The songwriter nodded his head and then shrugged shoulders. "At least I know you're semi-normal."

Roger paused.

"You alien."

Mark tilted his head back and laughed. This is what a normal drunken night should consist of: two highly drunk men, more beer, and random statements that in retro vision were really stupid. He just wanted this one night.

The filmmaker nearly jumped out of his seat when his beeper went off. "Shit," he muttered, trying to hide it from the man sitting next to him.

He swiftly moved from his seat and walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. No one could ever know. Mark walked over to his camera bag and dug its key from his pocket. Unlocking it, he removed a pill bottle from a secret compartment.

"AZT break," Mark mumbled as he opened the bottle, grabbed one of the small pills and swallowed it dry.

All he wanted was one night.

**((A/N: I have a question to ask. Does everyone get the Act 21, Scene 8 part? Please, tell me. I'll let it mingle for a couple chapters and if at that point, no one understands, I will tell the general idea of it.**

**That and, let me remind you that I do tend to reuse good ideas. So watch out for them in this chapter and the rest of the story. Kudos to people who can find them either in mine and MookieRiffic's published stories or in stories to come!))**


	4. Screwed

**Chapter 4: Screwed**

"Zoom out. My life. Act 20, Scene 2. It was Valentine's Day and you decided that we needed to go to a strip club to celebrate. You had to drag me there…"

"Roger, what the hell is up with you and going to strip clubs. It's not as cracked up as you make it out to be. Yay, I get to watch a girl take off her clothes," Mark said as he continued to edit the film he'd shot that day.

"Mark, you hole yourself in this loft all the time. The only thing you go out for is to shoot. And if you do go out other than that, it's because me and Collins have either physically picked you up and dragged you or we've threatened you on pain of death," Roger commented as he fiddled with his guitar.

"Hey, most of the time I wouldn't move when you threatened me on pain of death," Mark pointed out. He'd welcome death if he had the chance. Any chance to not live with what he had to live with would be a lovely idea.

"Common, Mark. You need to get out. Plus, it's Valentine's Day. You don't want to spend all night alone on V-Day man," Roger put his guitar down and walked over to Mark who was still huddled over the projector.

"Roger, not tonight. I really want to finish working on this piece of film. If I don't do it tonight then I'll have to do both parts tomorrow night," Mark stated his point. Roger couldn't ignore his logic.

"But Mark, why not just for tonight? We can come back early if you want. Like around 1 a.m.," Roger pleaded to the filmmaker, resting his hands on Mark's shoulders. He tensed under the songwriter's touch.

"I told you Roger, not tonight. Find one night that I don't have a lot to do and I'll go then. But tonight I can't." Clubs were for people who were alive and not dying. Clubs were for people who would live another day without the worries he had.

"Mark, whether you want to go or not, I'm taking you with me so you might as well come willingly," Roger then went and put on his coat, leaving Mark with his projector and his thoughts.

He wasn't going to go.

He wished Roger had just left him alone after that. But being the person he was, Roger continued to whine till it came down to either Mark came willingly or Roger would throw the younger man over his shoulder and carry him to the bar.

It just so happened that Roger wasn't kidding when he said he'd carry Mark to the club. The filmmaker wasn't too happy when he was flung over the older man's shoulder and forced to go somewhere he had no right to be.

"Look at that girl over there! She is so checking you out!" Roger screamed over the noise of the club. The two boys had made themselves comfortable at the bar. Mark had every intention of getting shitfaced just so Roger would have to take him back to the loft.

"I don't care, Roger. The hottest chick on the planet could be checking me out and I'd still want to be back at the loft finishing the editing of the film," Mark sighed, drinking some more of the cheep beer he'd ordered.

"No, seriously, Mark, she's like totally eying you up and down. You should go over and dance with her!" Roger said, the laughter interrupting his sentence a few times.

"There's no way Roger. I never even wanted to come here in the first place. Why don't you go and find a chick to dance with. I'm not into it," Mark said, downing the last bit of his drink and ordering another. The more he drank and the quicker he drank it meant the sooner he'd be back in his room, in the loft, safely editing his film.

"I'm not letting you come and get nothing out of it," Roger exclaimed, taking Mark's new drink straight out his hands. "I came here to have fun and I brought you along because I thought you'd have fun too. But you, you're just a party pooper. I'm going to get you to loosen up!"

"Just let it be Roger and go and find some girl to screw! God knows that's the only reason you came here! It's Valentine's Fucking Day! We shouldn't be trying to find some lousy fuck! We should be celebrating relationships. Celebrating just being alive and being able to feel!" Mark shouted at Roger, standing up in the process.

Mark took a few deeps breaths and continued, "I'm going back to the loft. I'll see you later. I don't want to ruin your night as well as mine."

"No, common. Just for one night won't you loosen up and just be something other than your detached self?" Roger asked, grabbing his friend around the shoulders and getting him to sit back down.

"Maybe I'm detached because I have to be. It's safer for everyone if I am. That way no one gets attached," Mark mumbled it. It wasn't meant to be heard.

"Mark, just get laid. You'll feel better in the morning."

"I can't. It's not right."

"It'll relieve some of your stress."

"It's not safe, someone could get hurt."

"Just take my advice, moron."

"There's too much at stake! It's not safe!"

Mark stormed out of the club, leaving Roger lost and confused within his own drunken thoughts.

**((A/N: Everyone, please, just bare with me on these chapters. You'll find out soon enough why I'm doing them like this.))**


	5. Not Alone

**Chapter 5: Not Alone**

"Zoom out. My Life. Act 19, Scene 4. My grandmother had died and you decided that you were going just for the hell of going. You didn't know her, but somehow you knew that I wanted you there by my side. We got in another fight, like we always do..."

"She sounded like a great person, Mark," Roger said, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He was only there because Mark was his best friend and best friends do these kind of things for each other. They sympathize with each other. Roger couldn't abandon his best friend, not after everything they'd been through together. After all the shit he'd put Mark through.

"She was. She practically raised me. I was there whenever I could be," Mark let a smile slip to his face as he remembered better times. Times when he wasn't dying by the day.

"What's your favorite memory of her Mark?" Roger nudged the younger man, just so he could hear him laugh. Something about his laugh made Roger want to laugh too. There was just something about Mark in general, Roger pondered. There was no certain thing.

"I don't know. There are a lot of great things I remember about her Roger. I mean, she used to make the best cookies. And when I was younger she let me help," the smile on Mark's face deflated, "And she left me alone. To face the world. She should be here with me!"

"Mark, she couldn't help it. You said it yourself earlier. She was old. She died of natural causes Mark. And man, that's the best way to go.Think about it. I'm never gonna get that old. I don't get a chance to die of natural causes!" Roger said, grabbing Mark's shoulders. "Don't you see. She was so lucky! Look at the family she had! She lived as long as she could Mark."

"But she should be here with me," a few tears ran down Mark's face. The filmmaker buried his head in Roger's shoulder and sobbed. His chest heaved, he made the odd strangled cries, he grabbed at Roger's shirt, and he mumbled, "I need her here with me."

The songwriter wrapped his arms around the younger man and held him. He'd never let Mark be alone. He'd stay with him until he couldn't stay anymore. It was that day that Roger made the vow, he would find someway to live as long as Mark needed him.

Taking a deep breath, Mark pushed himself away from Roger and looked around. He then took a moment to look at the sky. "Take care of her. She's really special to me."

"Common man," Roger said, taking the arm of his best friend, but Mark wouldn't budge. The two locked eyes. Roger nodded his head as if to say, "Let's get back. People will be wondering."

"I need a few more minutes. You don't understand," Mark said looking back to the freshly covered grave. He then mumbled, "You can never understand. You can never know."

"Mark, we've been out here for almost 3 hours now. Let's go. You've had enough time," Roger said, an exasperated sigh coming from between his lips.

"Who said you had to come anyway Roger? I never asked. You just assumed. If you want to leave you can!" Mark screamed. He turned his back to Roger and just stared at the sky. "Please, help me," he whispered.

"I came becuase I thought you wanted me to. If you didn't want me here all you had to do was say so. Is that so hard?" Roger shouted.

Mark turned, "I didn't say a word. You didn't even know her Roger! Maybe if you knew her or had someone close to you die! Maybe then you would understand!"

"Fuck you Mark. You think I've had the easy life. Look at me! I'm deteriorating by the day. I don't get to live as long as you do!" Roger screamed and walked off.

"You think I'll make it as long as you. Who says I won't be leaving all to soon?"

"Mark, look at you. Now look at me. I have to deal with something you never will have to."

"Stop thinking you're all alone in your problems!"

**((Okay, so I really only have a few more chapters to go. Tell me what you think. I mean come on. I have over a thousand hits for this story and only 13 reviews. Reviews make the writing process go a lil bit faster!**

**And guys seriously. Do you understand the Act 19, Scene 4 parts in the beginning?))**


	6. Behind Reality

**Chapter 6: Behind Reality**

"Cohen, Mark." A nurse called out. Both the songwriter and the filmmaker stood together and walked to the back.

"Sir, you're not allowed back here," the nurse said to Roger but he kept walking beside his friend.

"It's okay. I want him here with me." Mark nodded to the nurse and she just shrugged her shoulders and showed Mark where the doctor would see him.

The younger man hoisted himself onto the hospital bed, a coughing fit attacking him afterwards.

Once he was done, Mark's eyes met Roger's. "Mark, please. None of this is making any sense. Where the hell are you taking this?"

"All in due time. All in due time. Okay now where were we? What was the last story?" Mark inquired, looking around the room. White walls, white ceiling. Sterile.

"Your grandmother's death. But seriously what does this have to do with the AIDS thing?"

"Yeah. Okay. Zoom out. My life. Act 18, Scene 10. You finally succeeded in getting me to help you with your haunted house. I was against the whole thing from the beginning. Truthfully, I hated the idea because I was scared of the dark back then. But then again what do you expect with a naive little Jewish boy..."

"Roger, I'm not doing this. I mean look at it. It'll scare little kids. I don't want to scare little kids," Mark said in one breath as he looked into Roger's newly erected haunted house.

"Mark, I need your help. Come on, you can be wolfman. He's your favorite," Roger nudged his friend in the ribs. Mark whimpered at the impact.

"Can't I just film it?" Mark whined.

"What is it with you and that damn camera? Ever since you got that thing for your birthday this year, it's been attached to your damn hand," Roger groaned at the mention of Mark wanting to film.

"I need to start now if I want to be a good film maker. It's my dream Roger. Are you going to deny me future happiness?" Mark pulled out a most pitiful face. Yet going through his head was 'If I make it that far in the future.'

"Mark. You're wolfman and that's it. Come on," Roger grabbed the younger man by the upper arm and dragged him into the haunted house. Mark whined like a five-year-old and jumped at most of the traps that were set up. Clearly Roger had been working on this for a while before volunteering Mark to help him finish it.

"Roger, I am not doing this. I will film. Do not deny me happiness," Mark groaned as Roger pulled him through the haunted house.

"Get over whatever fear you have of being infront of the camera. Of living life Mark. You only have one chance to live it," Roger said, taking the camera from Mark's hand."You hide behind this thing. But in reality, it's you Mark that should be the star. You have so many things to say. You want to change the world, but hiding behind your camera prevents you from doing that."

Mark let the blush rise on his cheeks, hoping that the haunted house was dark enough to hide it. He contemplated saying thank you but he couldn't decide if that was just the right answer.So he just went with, "I'm not the only person hiding from something. Everybody does. I'm nothing special."

"But you have the drive to get out there and do it. The difference between you and them is that you can do it, not only just dream about doing it," the older man turned to look at the filmmaker. "A director should always be able to see things from an actor's point of view. And an actor should always be able to see things from the director's point of view."

"Are you trying to tell me I'm not allowed to hide? That I shouldn't?" Mark questioned his best friend's motives with this rush of compliments.

"I'm not trying to tell you to do anything. Let's thing of this as pushing advice," Roger grinned.

"I'm not the only one in this haunted house trying to hide behind something Roger. You hide behind your disease all the time. And if it's not that, it's your music. Gotta write one great song remember?" Mark launched at his friend, wrestling him to the ground. "You're always telling me what to do, when you do the same thing."

"I have a reason to hide. No one wants baggage without lifetime guarantees," Roger said, pushing his friend off of him. "No one wants something they have to watch die."

"Poor baby. There are people out there willing to love without holding back. People willing to get to know you after they know you have a death sentence on your head," Mark attacked Roger again, wrestling him, getting his aggression out physically but also verbally.

"Watch yourself, Cohen," Roger warned, rolling around, needing this just as much as the other.

"Fuck you, You're not the only one who needs to hide. You're not the only one that hides because he has to, not becuase he wants to." Mark rectified himself. He grabbed his camera and walked out of the haunted house.

Not once did he look back at the mess he left behind.

**((A/N: So that's chapter six. We're looking at like 3 to 4 more chapters and then that'll be the end! I know half of you are like "HOW THE HELL DID MARK GET AIDS?" and are about to kill me because you still don't know. But I guarantee you will find out. Most of the people who reviewed (who weren't many but I thank each and everyone of you) said they didn't get the whole Act 18, Scene 10 thing. Well, the Act represents his age each time. If you watch they got down each chapter. The Scenes represent the month. Like when I did the Thanksgiving one it was Scene 11, and Valentine's Day was Scene 2, and this one was Scene 10. I have a question. I may make the next chapter rated M. Would everyone still read it or should I just leave it as it is and hint on the more explicit stuff?  
Thanks for reading. Later dayz.))**


	7. High as a Kite

**Chapter 7: High as a Kite**

The doctor came and went, settling Mark into his bed and putting several IV's in his veins. The doctor gave Roger a menacing look, as if he wanted Roger to disappear.

"Mark."

The filmmaker let out a cough trying to keep his arms still as not to rip out any of his IV's. "Okay. How I got AIDS. Zoom out. My Life. Act 17, Scene 12. It was Christmas Eve. You had come over for the evening. You never did like spending the holidays with your family. So I guess my family was who you went to..."

"Roger, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be doing last minute Christmas preparations with your own family?" Mark groaned. He loved having his best friend over but it made it so he couldn't wrap the guy's present.

"Family time is overrated. Mark, I'd rather be here with you. That, and my parents'll know." Roger let out a giggle.

"You are not fucked up again," Mark rolled his eyes at his best friend. He turned to look at him as Roger toppled over onto Mark's bed. It wasn't even funny even more.

"Roger, how long have you been on smack now?" the younger boy wondered, trying to attempt to take care of his friend.

"Mmmmmm...two, maybe three weeks. It's so much better than pot. This stuff is great," The songwriter was gone.

"And I'm stuck with you til you come down. Then you'll go home?" Mark questioned. He actually would have liked to sleep. The sooner he went to sleep, the sooner morning would come and he could celebrate the Christmas holiday with his friends who celebrated it. Not his family though.

"It won't be long. I promise," a grin took over the better part of Roger's face as he layed there enjoying the feeling of his high.

"Good."

"Markie, I love you," Roger said in a sing song voice. "Maybe I should write a song about you. Markie, Markie, he's so grand. He has a great set of ... of... GLANDS!"

"Roger. Do us both a favor and just shut up," Mark groaned. He always was like this when he was fucked up.

"But Markie. I luuuuuuuuuuuv you. I luuuuuuuuuuuv you I do I do I doooooooo. I will love you for emer and emer." Roger let out a chuckle. "Oops. I can't talk."

Mark groaned and sat down on the end of his bed. He was kicked out of his own bed. Wouldn't that make a great documentary? Coming up next: The Great Bed Hogs of America.

He could feel the weight shifting on the bed. "Markie. Come to bed, please?" Roger's breath was hot on his ear.

A shiver ran up Mark's spine. He knew that if he turned his head, right there would be Roger. Something about that enticed him to do it. But no, he wasn't gay, nor was he bisexual. So why was he thinking about these things with his best friend? His MALE best friend. Clearing his throat Mark removed himself from the bed. "Roger, you are obviously very fucked up. So you lay there, enjoy whatever feeling that shit gives you and leave me the fuck alone."

Mark watched as Roger regained part of his composure and slithered off the bed. "But Markie, it's no fun if you're just standing over me watching. Come lay with me. I promise nothing will happen."

Something about Roger's green eyes called to him. They were telling him to lose all inhibitions and just go for it. Roger approached Mark and ran his hand down the younger man's face. There was nothing the filmmaker could do but let his body lean into the touch.

"Mark, come to bed?" Roger whispered, his face nearly inches away from Mark's. Leaning in, Mark's eyes fluttered close.

It might as well be tonight that the younger man threw all hell to the wind. He gave in, letting Roger do with him as he liked. He stood there for just a few seconds, waiting, breathing, until something possessed Mark to crash his lips to Roger's instead of waiting for Roger to crash his to Mark's. At the mere feeling of Roger's lips on his, Mark groaned, leaning in as far as he could go.

The musician's hands grabbed anything he could hold on to: hair, arms, clothes, torso. It felt so good, so...right. The filmmaker backed the guitarist to the bed, throwing him on it.

Mark stopped there for a moment, taking in the site. Roger, on his bed, panting and trying to retreive his breath. Damn, that was hott. Pushing himself on the bed, Mark crawled over to where Roger had landed, and moved himself ontop of the songwriter. Taking control again, Mark smashed his lips to Roger's for another fierce kiss. It was wild and passionate, everything his dreams had made it out to be.

Wandering hands made their way up the younger boys back, underneath his shirt and over his shoulders. They pulled apart for seconds, just long enough for Mark's t-shirt to be pulled over his shoulders and thrown off somewhere in the room. The filmmaker then began working on the guitarist's shirt, wanting to feel that skin on skin contact.

Roger let his body arch up into Mark's as the younger boy let his hands brush over the musician's nipples. Hard peaks, and incredibly sensitive. Mark could feel Roger's straining erection on his thigh.

Roger grabbed Marks' hand, shoving it down to where he needed the attention the most. Letting out a moan, the guitarist attached his mouth Mark's throat, earning a moan in response.

Mark pulled both his hands up to Roger's chest and pushed himself away. Removing his glasses, Roger noted that Mark looked a lot better without them on. He then heard Mark say in an authoritive tone: "You're gonna fuck me and it's going to be fast, hard and un-fucking-believable."

Roger couldn't believe what his best friend had just said to him. It was powerful, commanding, forceful, and down-right sexy. The only thing the musician could think of, was he had to obey Mark's every command.

Mark groaned and rolled over. Every muscle in his body hurt. What the fuck did he do to cause this? The single thought made a grin appear on his face.

Roger had left after the mind-blowing ordeal, both still in their erotic high.

**((A/N: Okay guys. Most of you said you wouldn't mind if I wrote it. But when it came to it, I really felt uncomfortable writing them going all the way. So I wrote a lil bit but everyone still knows what they did, right? Good. **

**Hope you liked it. Please review, it makes the next chapter come faster I do believe.))**


	8. Crashing Down

**((A/N: Semi-continuation of last chapter. Word.))**

**Chapter 8: Crashing Down**

Roger raised an eyebrow at Mark who just layed there in all his glory. Something possessed the musician to position himself closer to the younger man. He ran his fingers through the filmmaker's hair, relishing how it felt. Soft, and silky, though he probably hadn't washed it in days. None of that seemed to matter.

"Mark...I don't know what to say..."

"Shhh.." Mark presses a finger to Roger's lips, effectively silencings the rockstar. "It's okay. Let me get back to what I was saying. We were together for what seemed like the shortest amount of time ever in my life. It flew by. Two months passed and I watched you get wasted and high so many times, never joining in myself. I couldn't stop you, but I don't think I ever tried. You knew what you were doing, or so that's what I thought. I watched you using the needle one night and thought you ought to get checked for AIDS, but you scoffed at me, saying something about being invicible. It hit me then that I should get checked as well. Two weeks after getting the tests done I was heading back to the hospital, only to be faced with my own mortality..."

"Cohen, Mark," the filmmaker said to the receptionist. "I'm supposed to be picking up blood results today." The man smiled down at the lady as she smiled back.

"I'll go grab those for you. I know exactly where they are." The lady removed herself from her chair and disappeared through a door.

Mark waited for a couple minutes, looking around the waiting room and whistling. Not ever in his life, had he felt more uncomfortable. 1) He hated hospitals of any fashion with a burning desire to flatten them to hell and 2)he was about to learn something that would determine how he lived the rest of his life.

"Mr. Cohen, your results," The lady cleared her throat and handed the envelope to Mark.

He nodded his head and left the building. Walking into the bright sunshine of the February afternoon, Mark looked down into his hands. This little piece of paper decided his future, his fate.

Sighing he decided he shouldn't hold off, he had to know. Opening the envelope, Mark pulled out the paper inside. He unfolded the printed document and stopped breathing. It wasn't possible.

He was HIV +.

In the middle of the busy sidewalk, Mark collapsed, tears running down his face. He gathered his knees into his arms and let his head fall inbetween them. How could this have happened to him? The good boy?

What was the point of eating your vegetables if you didn't get desert?

Mark lifted his head, not concerned with the looks he was getting. He had to tell Roger. The musician needed to know that he was in danger. Hell, Mark could have easily gotten the disease from his best friend. But he didn't put the blame on him. He couldn't.

Mark should've been more careful. Mark should've known what he was getting himself into. Mark should've saved Roger. He should've stopped the drugs. He should've taken the alcohol. He should've made Roger be happy without all that.

The thoughts raced through the young man's head as he ran a hand down his face, removing the tears that had made their way down. He collected himself, and stood on his feet, a determined look on his face.

Making his way to his best friend's favorite hang out, Mark let nothing stop him. He banged on the door, only to have Roger open it.

"Roger we have to talk."

"Yeah man." Roger walked outside with the younger man, closing the door behind himself. Mark gave him an odd look.

"Remember when I got tested, well, it turns out..."

But Mark never got to finish that sentence.

"Look. I met this really hott chick last night. And well, to put it bluntly, whatever we had, it's over. I'm gonna go date her. We'll still be friends. I love you, man. Just not really in that way." Roger turned to walk back in.

"But Roger," Mark retorted. But his calls fell on deaf ears. He watched as Roger made his way back into the house, shutting the door to the outside world.

Life went on.

But somehow, nothing seemed all right anymore.

**((A/N: Only one more chapter left to go. Inspiration fairy hit me tonight so, reviews make the next chapter come faster!))**


	9. My Best Friend

**Chapter 9: My Best Friend**

Roger's jaw dropped. "So you're saying..."

"I don't know. But look Roger. I don't blame you. I don't blame anyone really, except for myself," Mark smiled as he said this. "If I blamed you. Why would I have stayed around for so long?"

Roger let out a small laugh. "Even if you don't blame me, I still will. Look at you. You're in the hospital because of me. You've been taking AZT since you were seventeen. No one should have to deal with that."

"Roger, Look at me. I'm 23. I've lived 6 years with this disease. And so have you. We're fighting the odds. Our lives aren't over yet just because we have AIDS or are HIV positive. We can live just as long as anyone else and still die of different causes. So stop blaming yourself."

"I just...I...How can you not blame me?" Roger looked at the ground as if he was ashamed of himself. Mark had never really seen this side of the musician and it wasn't really striking his fancy.

The filmmaker reached out and lifted Roger's face to meet his gaze, "Because I learned that I had to live each day to the fullest. It made me appreciate everything so much more."

"But..."

"Roger, Whatever fear you have of living life, you need to get over it. You only get one chance to live it. Yeah. I remember it." Mark looked down at his lap. "I tried to tell you so many times. I'd open my mouth, get ready to force the words out and I could never do it. And all those times I slipped and you never even realized."

"I think I was lying to myself. I always caught those things, but nothing ever connected," Roger looked like he was about to start another sentence when a nurse walked in.

"Sir, visiting hours are over. We need you to leave," She said in a polite tone, inviting and comforting.

"I'm not leaving. He's my best friend," Roger said, grabbing for Mark's hand.

"I'm sorry sir, but those are the rules."

"Roger, I'll be fine. Just, don't come back tomorrow, I'll call when I'm ready to come home." Mark shook Roger's hand off.

"No, I'm coming back tomorrow. You can't stop me," Roger gave the younger man an odd look as if questioning the filmmaker's request.

"I can feel it in my bones. I'm going to be just fine."

"I'm coming back tomorrow, but I'll leave now. Just for you buddy."

Roger stood and walked to the door. He turned and looked back at his long time friend, his best friend. Mark had his eyes closed and looked all around peaceful. It had been a long time since he'd his friend look like that. Roger sighed, remembering all the nights they had been together. It had been too good to be true.

The musician closed the door and walked down the hallway. He stopped in the waiting room, noticing the same nurse was standing there. He walked up to her and pulled out paper and a pen.

While writing down the loft's phone number he said, "If anything about his condition changes, for better or worse, I want to be notified."

She smiled and nodded, taking the paper.

Roger looked down and then went to leave the building when an alarm rang from behind the nurse's station. He whipped around just in time to see an army of doctor's run down the hall. He chased after them, just to put his mind at ease and make sure they weren't going to Mark's room.

But he wasn't met with his request. It seemed as if Mark's room was the one overflowing with doctors. They were rushing in and out, carrying several things with them.

Roger's body went on autopilot, not being able for him to deal with the trauma that might occur. He ambled down the hall, not the most graceful moment people could have captured him in. Upon arriving to Mark's room, several doctors tried to barricade him from returning inside.

"Let me in! That's my best friend!"

"I'm sorry sir."

"Just let me in there!"

"Sir, I can't let you do that!"

A long flat noise came from inside.

Roger fell to the floor, "No."

The doctors heads fell. There was nothing they could do now. They left. Roger was greeted with the sight of one lone nurse, the one who had kicked him out, covering his best friend with a white sheet.

**((A/N: -Ducks for cover.- Please no one kill me. I planned on this from the beginning really. I'm sorry for those who actually asked me not to kill him off. I really am. But, well. This is the end. And I thank you all from the bottom of my heart who have stuck with me through this story. It's actually been one of the first multichaptered stories I've finished. The first one being only 3 chapters long.**

**So I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it. And if anyone noticed. I posted the first chapter on November 29, 2005.I was going to update onDecember 29, 2005 but the site wouldn't let me. So, happy latemonth anniversary of A Little White Lie and happy endings to it at the same time. **

**Hope everyone has had a happy holidays so far.**

**I bid you a fond farewell, and hopefully you'll still read the new stuff I come out with.))**


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